Hope Springs
by girl in the glen
Summary: A picture is sometimes worth even more than a thousand words. Written for the LJ Scrapbook Spring Fling.


_The painting had seemed to speak to him, to call him into a world he could only imagine with his eyes closed._

Napoleon Solo loved beautiful things, beautiful women… he loved life. The images in the painting he and Illya were transporting from England to a location known only to Mr. Waverly (thus far), had somehow transcended his grasp on reality and sent his mind exploring unknown vistas full of happy thoughts and random acts of pleasure.

Illya had noted his friend's reaction when they first laid eyes on the painting. It was always worth noting Napoleon's response to objects and people, sometimes because their lives were on the line. Regarding this affair, the journey was two fold as they travelled from France to New York. Now they would embark on the second leg of their journey, but without more than the knowledge that they were delivering the painting. They weren't privy to the details, only the mission: Deliver the painting to a destination that will be revealed before the plane lands.

That was all of it. Neither agent had asked for more information, they would simply do as they were told and go… Mr. Waverly had only to ask it of them.

Having settled in for the flight to points unknown, the two friends each accepted drinks from the steward as well as some in flight appetizers. A full meal would be served sometime later on, the trip expected to be about five hours in the air.

Napoleon closed his eyes as the warmth of the scotch slid down his throat. He never tired of the sensation as the notes of the liquor harmonized with his desire for it. Solo could live without it, but life was so much better with his favorite drink to fortify his intentions.

And what were those intentions? He didn't ask that question very often. It wasn't a long list, something he both regretted and celebrated. To have a long list after which one labored and sought redemption was a tedious thing. He had served his country, loved more than one woman, dealt out justice on more than a few occasions and lived to tell about it. He was serving the world now, fighting the good fight alongside the best man he could think of; Illya Kuryakin was a friend worth dying for.

So what else was there for a man like Napoleon Solo?

Illya looked at his partner with a scrutinizing eye. He recognized something going on in the mind of UNCLE's top strategist, and somehow it had all begun with the painting.

"Napoleon, will you share your thoughts with me?', Kuryakin smiled at the request he was making. These two didn't often spill their guts, as some would phrase it.

"I am curious to know what you think of this cargo we are carrying. The painting seems to have struck a note somehow, with you that is."

Napoleon took another swallow of the scotch and winced slightly as the heat once more tinged his vocal chords. No wonder people who had a long history of drinking to excess sometimes had those coarse voices reflecting their vice. The alcohol seared like a hot pan to the touch.

"Illya, I'm not sure I understand the question." The smirk on his face told the Russian he absolutely did know what was being asked.

"My friend, that painting is a fantasy of sorts, intended to transport the viewer into another world." That caught Solo's attention. How on earth did Illya get all of that from a painting?

"And just how is it that you have perceived all of this _Doctor Kuryakin_?" He stretched out the syllables intentionally, as though to challenge the nature of Illya's credentials.

"I read the file." Succinct, annoying.

"Oh. Yes, well… that is your forte´ after all." Illya's crooked smile mocked the CEA. One should always read the file.

"Napoleon, the artist was a woman, Claire Olivier. She painted this piece as part of a series based on an old legend about Genevieve of Brabant." Napoleon canted his head, interest combined with his usual frustration at his partner's obvious knowledge concerning that of which he himself was ignorant.

"Genevieve of Brabant? Who was she?"

Illya was reviewing the tale in his mind, his own imagination engaged by the ancient tale of betrayal and accusations.

"Genevieve of Brabant was the wife of Siegfried of Treves, a man of some stature. She was falsely accused of adultery, apparently by a man who had been rejected by her. When she was sentenced to death, the executioner took pity on her and spared her life, allowing her to escape and take up residence in the forest where she and her son lived in a cave for several years. A doe would feed them, and did so until they were discovered and her position restored when Siegfried became aware of the treachery of the accuser."

Napoleon listened, trying to imagine the woman deep within the forests depicted in the painting. History was full of misery, not so different from the world as he knew it to be.

"And this is a fairy tale? I guess I've never understood the relationship with all of the bad things depicted in something we relate as full of magic and happiness." His life had never been like a fairy tale, at least he hadn't thought so. Listening to Illya's recitation of the story of Genevieve he thought perhaps his perceptions had been faulty.

"The story is reportedly based on a true event. The part of this that makes it a fairy tale is that the mother and son were nurtured by a creature of the forest. In some ways it is an analogy to the Virgin Mary and her son, the Christ Child Jesus. Although the actual woman upon whom the story is based was killed…' Napoleon shot a look that begged explanation for that statement.

"Um, yes… beheaded by her husband for the assumed adultery. So you see, it takes a fairy tale with magical forest creatures in order to rectify the crime of putting an innocent woman to death. This artist, Claire Olivier, was beginning an entire series of paintings based on this story. Unfortunately she was struck down by something like influenza in the midst of her work and she was unable to finish it."

"She died?" Napoleon hated to hear of another tragedy involving women.

"Yes. She was twenty-nine years old, and quite the liberated woman for her time. It was not at all common for a woman to try and make a living as an artist, and yet she persisted in her efforts until …'' Illya paused at the look on Napoleon's face.

"Until she died? She was so young. What is the date?" Now Napoleon would go back and read the file, but first he wanted to know how old the painting was.

"The painting was done in 1889. Claire died the next year. Her family has kept the painting safe all of these years, and only recently the estate sold it to the collector to whom we are delivering it."

Napoleon was glad that the painting would be seen by others. At least he hoped it would be.

"Do you think the public will be allowed to view the painting?" Illya pursed his lips and looked out the window, as though the clouds could reveal an answer.

"I hope so. I hope the opportunity for others to have an experience such as you have had will be available. We have only to deliver it and see."

The remainder of the flight was unremarkable. The two men enjoyed a gourmet meal prepared by the onboard chef. The plane was owned by the person who had purchased the painting, and it seemed that no expense would be spared in the process of receiving it. By the time the plane landed, instructions had come through from Alexander Waverly concerning the last phase of this mission.

Waiting for them as they deplaned, Solo and Kuryakin were met by a man with a panel truck behind him. The painting was loaded into it while paperwork was signed and explanations were given.

The man was wearing an expensive three piece suit, a Saville Row creation by Napoleon's estimations. When the man spoke all thoughts of England evaporated, however.

"Welcome to Houston, gentlemen. My name is Arthur Conroe and I represent the Museum of Fine Art here in our grand city." The drawl was distinctly Texan, the smile one of someone who had nothing but cheer to bestow on others. Illya was slightly put off by the obvious glee while Napoleon found Arthur to be gracious and engaging.

"Thank you Mr. Conroe. So, the painting is going to your museum?" Napoleon felt relieved to know it would indeed hang in a public place.

"Yessir, this beautiful painting will be hanging in our new retrospective on works detailing Old World Tales. Our museum has been serving the public for over sixty years, and this new acquisition is one we are mighty proud of. Do you know the story?"

Napoleon was very glad to be able to reply in the affirmative, thankful that his partner had filled him in on it. Sometimes this job did make him very glad for the work they accomplished.

"How soon will the exhibit open?" Illya was hoping they might be able to view it, although they were due to head back to New York in the morning.

"Well now, I reckon y'all could come by the museum tomorrow and see it before we open it to the public. This painting is going there now and will be installed along with the others. This is our last piece to go into the collection." Arthur's smile was infectious, and Illya began to soften his resistance to such outright cheer.

Napoleon looked at his friend and got the agreement he hoped for as Illya nodded his head.

"Thank you Mr. Conroe…" Arthur held up his hand.

"That's Arthur, no formalities here in Houston. At least not with me." The smile spread across his face and was reflected to him as the two UNCLE agents relented to the southern charm.

"I'll be there bright and early, y'all come by before your flight out. And thank you for taking such good care of this treasure. A lot of folks will be better for seeing it." That pleased Napoleon, very much.

"Thank you Arthur, we'll see you tomorrow."

The night passed with a pleasant meal at their luxury hotel, all of which was paid for by the museum. If this was any indication of life in Texas, Napoleon was warming to the concept. Illya made note of the food and the sumptuous suite, a rare thing for them in their travels.

"It seems there is some benefit to an economy built on oil. I must admit that I am looking forward to seeing the museum. What time is our flight, by the way?" Napoleon agreed, he wouldn't mind staying on for a day longer.

"We have a noon flight, so the morning won't be rushed. I'm glad we will be able to see the painting in its new home. I wish Claire Olivier could have known the fate of her work." Illya took note of the wistful tone in Napoleon's voice. They never knew the impact a mission would have on them, and in this case he thought it might last for a while longer than the time it would take to fly across the country.

In the morning the agents were dressed and on their way to the museum by eight o'clock. Each of them wanted a couple of hours to explore the museum, since the option was there to do so. Once in a while their professional lives intersected with something like this, an opportunity to engage with the positive aspects of their work.

Arthur met them and led them directly to the exhibit where Claire's painting was hung next to a large storybook with the tale of Genevieve of Brabant.

"This is quite beautiful, compelling even." Illya was impressed while Napoleon stood by without words adequate to express his response.

"Napoleon? What do you think?"

It was impossible to convey what he was thinking. The painting moved him, and in his deepest emotions Napoleon wished fervently that he could have saved her, or them. Both the heroine of the story and Claire. She died too young, and the real Genovieve had died a horrible death at the hands of a jealous husband; one who was wrong.

Napoleon's mind reeled with his own romantic liaisons, of women whom he had seduced and left because the job demanded it. Were there any like the woman in the story? Had any of them faced jealous lovers afterwards and been accused of something for which he himself should carry the blame?

It was madness to think like this, and yet this painting had opened up something in his soul for which he must now take inventory. How had it happened? Why?

"Napoleon? Are you all right?" Illya was more curious than concerned, but Arthur seemed unaffected by the response. He knew the power of art, and how truly affected a person of intellect and empathy could be enveloped by the power of the artists' brush.

"Napoleon, go ahead and let the painting carry you wherever it will. You're all right, it's what Claire would have wanted for you. It's why she painted." Napoleon shot him a look and then took in a deep breath.

"Really? This is normal, you understand?"

"It's art. And it's the art you were destined to connect with. We're all different, we see things and feel differently. That is the beauty of it. Let it change you."

Napoleon held out his hand to the curator, grateful for that simple statement. They shook hands, and then Illya followed suit.

"Thank you Arthur. This has indeed been an experience we shall not soon forget. You have a beautiful museum." Illya was not experiencing what Napoleon had, but he understood the impact a piece of art or music might have on an individual. It was one of the things in life that made him believe in more than what his Soviet masters had taught him. If mankind was the product of a creative being, then it made sense that people would create powerful imagery as well.

But that was for another day. Napoleon would be introspective for the flight home, and so it would go for as long as the influence of Claire's painting would last.

 _Some things are eternal. Whether or not this experience was one of those things was yet to be seen._


End file.
